


can't control my feelings, can't control my thoughts

by katsumi



Series: a world that's entirely our own [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Love Potion/Spell, M/M, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-10-04 06:36:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10270448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katsumi/pseuds/katsumi
Summary: When Jasper accidentally gifts Clarke a love potion, everyone she interacts with starts acting...weird. Everyone, that is, except Bellamy. [Hogwarts AU]





	

**Author's Note:**

> It's all spelled out within, but just in case you want the breakdown:
> 
> Bellamy, Jasper, Octavia = Gryffindor  
> Monty, Raven = Ravenclaw  
> Clarke, Miller = Slytherin

At this point in her Hogwarts career—sixth year prefect, on track to be head girl—Clarke really should know better than to trust Jasper Jordan. So really, everything that happens after she does is probably her own damn fault.

She is that tricky mixture of exhausted and elated post-Arithmancy exam, stretched out on the grass by the Quidditch pitch, head in Bellamy’s lap and desperate to turn her mind off. That’s when Jasper hands her the vial.

“Present!” he chirps.

She takes it, holds it over her head to inspect the pink liquid, tinted gold in the sunlight. Bellamy swats her hand away; he’s concentrating on the Slytherin team running drills down on the pitch.

“What is it?” she asks Jasper.

“A test batch of one of my greatest concoctions,” says Jasper, gleeful. Jasper makes up for his thoroughly mediocre grades by being bonkers excellent at potions, a talent he has very much let get to his head. Beside him, Monty—enormous transfigurations book spread across his lap, Ravenclaw tie loose around his neck—rolls his eyes.

“That explains nothing,” says Clarke, at the same time as Bellamy shouts: “Nice play, Miller!”

Clarke pats his knee. “You know he plays for my team, right?”

“He’s my best friend,” Bellamy grunts. Then, as an afterthought: “And he’s _better_ than me, which is unacceptable.”

“I just think it’s cute that you’re out here studying their practice and you still can’t stop yourself from cheering him on. Gives me further confidence that we’re going to trounce Gryffindor this year.”

“Shut up,” says Bellamy, poking at her temple. His eyes are still on the sky. “Roan graduated. This is a rebuilding year. And you guys aren’t that great.”

“Excuses, excuses.”

“I don’t know,” says Monty, thoughtful. “He has a point. Murphy just beat one of his own teammates with his bat. On purpose, I think.”

“He won’t do that during an actual game,” says Clarke, waving her hand dismissively. And then, remembering: “Wait, Jasper, I’m sorry. What is this thing I’m holding again?”

_"Thank you,"_ Jasper laughs. He flops down on his back, tries to edge his head on Monty’s knee like Clarke and Bellamy’s; Monty shoves him off. “I’ve been working on it for a while. It’s supposed to make you more focused, so you can study longer.”

Again, this is the moment when Clarke really should ask some follow-up questions. Like, _how did you test it?_ And _are there any side-effects?_ And most importantly: _are you sure you didn’t mislabel the vial and are actually handing me a completely different potion from the one you are describing?_

But she doesn’t ask. She just pockets the vial with a grin. “Thanks, Jasper. Monty.”

Monty shakes his head. “This one’s all Jasper. I just hang out in the room so I can put him out if he sets himself on fire.”

“That happened, like, once,” Jasper grumbles.

“It’s happened fourteen times,” replies Monty. “I’m keeping count. YES!”

Clarke swivels her head to look at Monty; Bellamy does too. Monty winces.

“Err,” he says, “I just—Miller made a good play.”

“He did?” Bellamy asks, shielding his eyes with his hand. “I missed it!”

Clarke just grins at Monty, who immediately flushes and hunches back over his textbook. Monty hates quidditch. Clarke knows exactly why he’s here.

And, to be fair, he knows exactly why she’s here. It’s got a lot to do with the thigh her head is currently resting on, and the boy attached to it: broad and freckled, curly hair and dimpled chin and warm, bright smile. Bellamy had always been more Miller’s friend than hers, but when they were both made prefect at the start of their fifth year, they started spending a lot more time together. And it turned out, he isn’t as arrogant as she’d previously thought, as full of bravado; it was something she was learning about all Gryffindors, actually, years of unspoken lessons she had to forcefully unteach herself.

It turned out Bellamy is warm, and sarcastic, and super into history of magic—like, obsessively so. And these are all qualities Clarke can get behind.

“You know,” says Bellamy, “I think I can blame Miller being better than me at quidditch on my living in a muggle neighborhood. Miller clearly practiced over the summer. He’s too good.”

“He could just be naturally more talented than you,” says Clarke, helpfully, even though she knows for a fact that Miller practiced all summer. He was barely ever around.

“C’mon, Clarke,” Jasper whines. “I need Gryffindor to do well this year.”

“You really don’t,” says Monty. At Jasper’s glare: “Oh come on, Jasper, you’re not on the team. So even if Gryffindor wins, Maya is not going to find _you_ more impressive. She might find Bellamy more impressive.”

“I am impressive,” Bellamy offers. Clarke thwacks his foot.

“Hey,” Jasper moans, “come on, man, we’ve talked about this. I have a whole plan. It’s going to work.” He makes an odd squiggly gesture with his left hand, and Monty laughs.

Jasper and Monty grew up with each other before they even came to Hogwarts; their nonverbal communication puts the rest of the group to shame. Clarke still remembers in first year, when she and Miller had met Monty while wrangling blast-ended skrewts in Care of Magical Creatures with the Ravenclaws. He’d been timid, then, sorted apart from his best friend in the world, unconvinced that his mind was valuable enough to be included in the house that cultivated so many of the world’s smartest wizards. But then he’d become better friends with Raven, and now, that nervousness has mostly slipped away. Raven’s confidence is contagious, and Monty’s always had a lot to be confident about.

“Where is Raven?” Clarke wonders.

“Library,” says Monty. “Where I should be. But instead I’m out here, letting you guys distract me from studying.”

“Yeah,” Clarke says. “Us.”

Monty glares at her.

“Ugh,” says Clarke, burrowing her head against Bellamy’s thigh. “I should probably join her, too. I still haven’t started those twelve inches for Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

Bellamy drums his fingers against her temple—light, affectionate. (Friendly.) “You deserve a break. You were up past midnight last night.”

“I still find it weird that Miller fills you in on my sleep habits,” Clarke grumbles.

“You tell me his,” Bellamy points out.

“Hm. True.”

“Seriously,” says Bellamy, “you can’t study all the time. Your brain will implode.”

“That’s true,” adds Monty, tapping his head. “Science.”

Clarke laughs. The sun is warm, the breeze cool, the leaves on the nearby trees a brilliant mix of reds and yellows. Her friends are here, and laughing, and she can feel Bellamy’s chest expand with every breath he takes.

“Well,” she says, “another hour probably won’t hurt.”

Jasper whoops. When she tilts her chin up, Bellamy is looking down at her, smiling that warm way he does that makes her whole stomach wobble. Things are good, here, just like this. This is good.

 

* * *

 

Even so, later that night, books spread out across one of the desks in the Slytherin common room, she’s close to regretting the decision to stay.

“Why did I put this off?” she asks Miller, shaking out her hand. “This essay is a nightmare.”

“The hell are you asking me for?” Miller gripes. He’s got his cheeks in his palms and he’s just staring down at his essay, as if the force of his fury might will the quill to move. (If anyone could make that happen, it’d be Miller.) “You make your own decisions, Griffin.”

“Hey.” Clarke shoves him with her elbow. “I put this off because I was watching _your_ practice, you know.”

“Yeah, well, that was your choice.” He blinks down at the parchment, then snarls. “Fuck it. I’m out. I’ll do the last inch in the morning.”

“Oh, come on!” Clarke groans. “Don’t leave! I have six whole inches left!”

“Learn how to manage your time, prefect,” says Miller. But he reaches out to pat her shoulder as he stands, which is just about as comforting a gesture as Miller is emotionally capable of.

“I can’t believe you’re abandoning me,” says Clarke. “I dislike you tremendously.”

“No you don’t,” says Miller, gathering his books. “Night, Clarke. Don’t stay up too late. And for the love of Merlin, don’t fall asleep at the desk again.”

“You know you don’t _have_ to carry me to the couch if that happens, right? This is not something I expect from our friendship.”

Miller just waves, heading up the stairs.

Clarke turns back to her essay, which is clearly trying to kill her by slow and cruel methods. Kane is that dangerous breed of professor whose idea of balancing theory and application is assigning boatloads of both. She can only imagine what his N.E.W.T. class is going to be like.

And then she remembers: Jasper’s potion. It’s still in her pocket. Perfect. She could definitely use some help with concentration and focus right about now.

Later, she will kick herself for not thinking this through. But in the present, she’s just so tired. She downs it in one gulp.

It even tastes pink, if that’s possible—gooey, bubbly, crackling all the way down her throat. She waits for a reaction, for some bolt of lightning, but nothing comes. So she just turns back to her essay.

Maybe she works a little faster than normal, maybe not. She’s honestly too tired to tell. She’ll ask Jasper about it in the morning.

 

* * *

 

But when she finds Jasper in the great hall the next morning, things are...weird.

He’s sitting with some of the other Gryffindors, and she taps his shoulder, motions him aside.

“Just so you know,” she offers, “I tried your potion last night. I’m not sure it works that well.”

Jasper is staring at her, eyes round and wide. He makes an odd little noise in the back of his throat.

“Um,” he says, swallowing. “What?”

“Your potion,” Clarke repeats. “The pink one?”

“Pink,” says Jasper. He nods, murmuring to himself. “Pink, pink.”

“Jasper?”

Then Jasper smiles, alarmingly wide, so wide it takes up almost half his face. “What did you think of the potion, Clarke?”

Clarke hasn’t even had breakfast yet. It’s too early to deal with this

“Jasper,” she says, slow. “I just told you. I’m not sure it works.”

“We’ll have to try again, then!” Jasper laughs. He leans a little closer, shrugs his shoulders. “You know, I made that just for you.”

“Uh,” says Clarke. “Okay. Thanks.”

Jasper just grins.

Clarke nods. “Okay. Well, I’m going to...go.”

“Okay,” says Jasper, eagerly. “I’ll see you soon, right Clarke?”

This is a ridiculous question, because they see each other all the time. She is basically carrying Jasper’s Charms grade. But Clarke just nods.

“Yeah, Jasper. Okay.”

She grabs some toast and an apple and heads back out of the Great Hall (she needs time to proofread before class). She’s walking so fast, still miffed about Jasper’s weird behavior, that she nearly collides with a gaggle of first years.

“Woah there,” says Bellamy, appearing out of nowhere and snatching her by the shoulders, pulling her out of the way. "No need to maim the children, princess.”

Bellamy smells like sandalwood and soap, like he just got out of the shower, hands firm on her upper arms, and this is exactly the kind of distraction she does not need when time is of the essence.

"Thanks." She extricates herself from his grip, turns for the door, and then stops herself. “Hey, Bellamy. Is Jasper acting kind of weird today?”

Bellamy shrugs. “No more than usual.”

Clarke glances over his shoulder, to where Jasper is sitting at the table, staring straight at her. He waves when he sees her looking, arm stretched high above his head.

She really does not have time for this.

“Uh,” she says, “okay. Well. Thanks.”

Bellamy chuckles. “Anytime.”

 

* * *

 

But as the day goes on, things keep getting weirder. A fifth-year Gryffindor named Monroe with whom Clarke’s spoken all of twice helps pick up her books when she drops them and then proceeds to follower her down the hallway to Herbology, staring at her the whole way. After giving Lincoln a quick shoulder massage (well within the realm of normal for their friendship) he insists on _carrying_ her all the way to Care of Magical Creatures, which is only slightly mortifying.

When she runs into her ex-girlfriend Niylah, a seventh year Hufflepuff, she ends the conversation with a standard, innocent hug. But then Niylah refuses to let go, leaving Clarke to have to awkwardly extricate herself from Niylah’s grip after way longer than was comfortable.

She tries not to think about it. She probably just hasn’t been getting enough sleep.

But then, when she swings by Monty’s desk in library later that morning, even Monty is weird. And Monty is the friend she can almost always count on to keep his shit together.

He jumps three feet when she taps his shoulder, spins around and gapes at her.

“Clarke,” he manages. “Hi.”

“Hi. What are you studying?”

“I, uh—” The tips of his ears are red. His neck, too. “I forget.”

“You forget,” Clarke repeats. This is worrying. “Monty, are you okay?” She moves forward, ready to press her head to Monty’s forehead, but stops when he recoils, lurching back.

“Fine!” he says. “Fine, fine.”

“Miller was sick last week,” says Clarke, concerned. “Do you think you might be catching it?”

“Miller,” Monty mumbles. His eyes widen. “Shit. Miller. _Shit._ ”

“What about Miller?”

Monty looks pained. “Can we not talk about Miller? Please?”

Clarke blinks. “Okay?”

“Can we also, like, not talk at all? Maybe? Just for a bit.” Monty points down at his desk, forcing a laugh. “I’ve got, you know—homework.”

Clarke nods, albeit reluctantly. She makes a mental note to check with Miller—maybe something happened, something bad, in which case she will be forced to fight Miller, which is something she’d prefer not to do. But she honestly can’t imagine it. Miller might think he’s all stoic and guarded, but he’s easy to read; he might not admit it, but Clarke’s pretty sure he’s into Monty, too.

“Are people being weird today?” she asks Bellamy, over lunch. They sometimes eat on the stairwell leading up to Gryffindor tower, next to the painting of the goddess Athena that Bellamy befriended in his first year. Growing up in a muggle neighborhood where the pictures don’t move, he’d been ecstatic and overwhelmed by the opportunity to get to talk to actual pieces of history. The nerd.

Bellamy shrugs, brushing some of his chips onto her plate. He pushes his glasses, black and square, up the bridge of his nose. Glasses are such a good look on him. (Though to be fair, every look is a good look on him.)

“People are always weird,” he says.

“I mean, like...weirder. Jasper was being weird. Monty was being weird.”

“Maybe they found another secret passage,” says Bellamy. “And are smuggling in more cats.”

“Ugh,” says Clarke, knocking her knee against Bellamy’s, “don’t remind me.” That stretch during fourth year when Jasper and Monty had decided that if the castle had ghosts, it should also have cats, was easily one of her least favorite periods at Hogwarts. It was a well-intentioned idea in theory, but these were just regular, muggle-world cats who hadn’t been able to handle it when the ghosts (inevitably) teased them. It had been a two month infestation of solid, unstoppable howling.

“I’ve spent all day with Jasper,” says Bellamy. “He seemed fine to me. I mean, I had to watch him stumble through flirting with Maya in the hallway earlier, but I’ve gotten used to that.”

Clarke laughs. “At least she seems to be receptive to what little game he has.”

“I know. It’s a damn miracle.”

“Maybe he’s slipped her a love potion,” Clarke jokes. Something prickles at the back of her brain at the thought. Love potion. What if—

“Come on, let’s give him more credit than that,” says Bellamy. He swallows. “Uh, by the way, are you okay? I saw you and Niylah today, in the hallway.”

And any thought of love potions disapparates from her brain faster than a chocolate frog’s first bounce.

“Yeah,” she says, voice light as she can make it. “Totally fine.”

Clarke had dated Niylah for the first half of her fifth year, and things had been good. Easy. But then, Niylah secured an Herbology internship in Brazil for the summer, and over Christmas break she’d asked Clarke if they could take a break, starting in the summer. And Clarke—hurt and surprised—had retorted that if they were going to waiting to take a break, they might as well just break up right then and there.

The split was mostly amicable, but it was also Clarke’s first, which meant she didn’t take it as well as she was expecting. Those had been a dark few months, that spring, when Miller followed her around the Slytherin common room like a grouchy guard dog: not saying anything, not asking anything, but always standing there, just a few inches away. Monty had sat with her at every weekend quidditch game, even games where Miller wasn’t playing, just to keep her company. Raven had dragged her up to the astronomy tower, talked so animatedly about the stars that Clarke lost herself in it, lying on her back staring up at the sky. (On more than one occasion, Raven had leaned over and kissed her—smiling, challenging, light. That had helped, too.)

And then, there had been Bellamy. It was during those months that Bellamy’s place in her life had shifted from something of a colleague, a fellow prefect, to a true, close friend. She still isn’t even sure how, exactly. But all of a sudden Bellamy was just _there_ in a way he hadn’t been before, at her right side while Miller took her left, a steady, solid presence.

And maybe it was because they had so many prefect patrols together, but Bellamy became the person she opened up to about Niylah. He was the one who came to know her well enough to draw her away from the group when she wasn’t feeling up to socializing, who smuggled her pastries from the kitchens when he knew she hadn’t been eating. He was the one who had found her on the brink of tears in the hall outside the Transfiguration classroom and pulled her into an empty classroom, let her rest her forehead on his shoulder and murmured comforting words as she cried.

She had lost a girlfriend, but gained a Bellamy. And the more time she spends with Bellamy, the more convinced she is that it was the right trade.

“She hugged you,” Bellamy says. He shifts a little, looks down at his plate. “Which isn’t abnormal, I guess, it was just—long.”

“Yeah,” says Clarke, knocking her shoulder with his. “Weird, right? Not sure what that was about.”

She’s hopeful this gesture sends the message of _it’s fine. I’m over this. Have been for a while, now, actually. (Thanks to you.)_

Bellamy smiles at his plate. “Okay. Just checking.”

Clarke can’t resist. She leans over, slots her head into the dip where his shoulder meets his neck. She feels him relax beneath her.

“Thanks, though,” she says. “For looking out for me.”

Bellamy exhales, half a laugh, half a sigh. “Of course.”

 

* * *

 

She usually works on homework in the astronomy tower after lunch, when both she and Raven have a free period. Today when she gets there, Raven is sitting in their usual corner, scowling down at her textbook.

“Oh no,” says Clarke, sliding down the wall next to her. “Monty beat you on your Charms test?”

Raven groans, thunking her head against the wall. “That stupid little genius is going to be the death of me.”

“You realize he doesn’t think you’re competing over grades, right? He’s just doing his thing. This is all in your head.”

“I came here to win, Clarke.”

“Again,” Clarke laughs, “it’s not a competition. It’s just school.”

“Says someone who’s not going to win,” says Raven. “No offense. You have other skills. Leadership and what not. You’re very fair when you take away house points.”

“Thanks,” Clarke deadpans. “Come on, Raven, it’s not that big a deal. You’ll get him next time.” She offers Raven her hand, and Raven laughs, squeezing it.

Clarke moves to pull away. Raven holds on.

“Raven?” Clarke asks. “What’s up?”

Raven answers by tugging her forward by the chin and kissing her. Clarke squeaks with surprise; her books clatter to the ground.

“Raven,” she stutters, pulling back. “What are you doing?”

“I think that’s pretty obvious,” says Raven, dropping a hand to Clarke’s knee. “Don’t you?”

“I, err—” Clarke’s brain is twitching. Raven’s smiling at her, all teeth, and damn if she isn’t really, incredibly, unfairly hot.

Clarke leans back. “Raven. We stopped doing this.”

Raven’s staring at her lips, eyes lidded. “Yeah,” she says. “But you’re really fucking cute today.”

A different version of Clarke would have shrugged and tugged Raven back in, kissed her until her head started swimming. But this version of Clarke is past the point where casually hooking up with her friends seems like a good idea. And this version of Clarke is now officially, thoroughly confused.

“What the hell is up with this day?” she groans, scooting away from Raven. “Do I look different? Did I forget to put on all my clothes, or something?”

“Nope,” says Raven, eyes traveling down Clarke’s body. “You are, unfortunately, fully clothed.”

“Raven.”

“Fine!” Raven laughs, turning back to her book. “Kill my fun! I’m just saying, you’re on fire today, Griffin. I don’t know what it is, but it’s working for you.”

Clarke groans, and Raven play-kicks her.

“Shut up,” she says. “Don’t whine about being hot. It’s unbecoming.”

“Is this what it feels like to be you?” Clarke asks. “How are you not exhausted all the time?”

Raven grins. “Hotness is a great burden, Clarke.”

Clarke bites her lip. “Raven? We’re good, right?”

Raven shrugs, gives her an easy smile. “Of course. We’re always good.”

Clarke smiles, all warm relief. “Okay. Good.”

 

* * *

 

By dinnertime, Clarke’s just chalking up the day to a bizarre hole in the space-time continuum, an aberration she’s eager to go to sleep and forget. Then she slides into a seat at the Slytherin table next to Miller.

She’s technically been in the same room as Miller most of the day—that’s what happens when all your classes are together. But he’s been preoccupied with quidditch stuff, and her with test stuff, and this is the first time all day they’ve really had a chance to talk.

She grabs his forearm as a silent hello, then reaches for the bread rolls. Miller flinches. He turns slowly, frown sharp, forehead wrinkled. He just stares at her for a long, long moment.

“Uh,” says Clarke, breaking off a piece of her roll. “Hello?”

Miller says nothing.

Clarke waves a hand in front of his face. “Everything okay in there, Miller?”

She reaches for his forehead—is he getting sick again? But Miller intercepts her hand, closes his fingers tight around her wrist.

“Come with me,” he says. “Now.”

Clarke doesn’t argue. This is weird. This has never happened before.

Miller drags her out into the hallway, behind one of the pillars. He lets go of her wrist like it’s burned him, takes a giant step back.

“Something’s wrong,” he says.

“What?” Clarke asks. She takes a step closer, but Miller grimaces, so she stops. “Miller, what is it?”

“Look, I don’t know what the fuck is happening, but—” He stops, lowers his voice. He can’t meet her eye. “For some reason, I find you really attractive right now.”

Clarke’s first instinct is to laugh. She’s known Miller practically since birth. She was one of the first people he came out to. It’s safe to say she’s not his type.

“Not sure what the point of that joke is,” she says.

Miller scowls. “That’s the thing. I’m not joking. My brain is trying to tell me that I’m into you, which we both know I’m fucking not. What the fuck is going on, Clarke?”

Clarke deflates. “Oh my god. Are you serious?”

“Yes, I’m fucking serious.” Miller looks furious, which in any other situation would be funny. “This is so weird, Clarke. What did you do?”

“Nothing!” she croaks. “This has just been a really weird day!”

“Wait,” says Miller. “Has this been happening with other people?”

“Yeah,” says Clarke, miserably. “Raven kissed me. Oh god, that probably explains the Niylah hug. And Jasper was super weird this morning, and Monty—”

Miller actually growls.

“I’m sorry!” Clarke yelps, raising her hands. “I don’t know what I did!”

“Well you clearly did _something_ ,” argues Miller. “Did you get hit by an attraction charm? Take a love potion?”

And there it is, that missing piece that Clarke really should have figured out hours ago. (Would have, if she hadn’t been so distracted.)

“Love potion,” she gasps. “Oh my god. _Jasper_.”

Miller groans. “Of fucking course.”

“I need to talk to him,” says Clarke. “Right now.”

“Yeah,” Miller agrees, already walking past her towards the door to the Great Hall. He stops, glances over his shoulder. “Just...stay like two feet back, yeah?”

Clarke nods. “I’m going to tease you about this later, you know.”

“I hate you,” says Miller, before striding into the Great Hall.

Jasper’s sitting with Monty at the Ravenclaw table, laughing over his soup and not at all expecting Miller to suddenly appear and lift him up by the collar.

“Hey!” he gurgles. “You’re choking me!” And then, catching sight of Clarke: “Oh, hey Clarke! You’re looking pretty this evening!”

“Come with us,” says Miller, yanking at his collar. “Right now.”

Monty, looking concerned, moves to stand, but Miller glares at him.

“Not you,” he barks.

Monty freezes.

“Miller,” says Clarke, hesitant, “we might need his—”

“Nope,” Miller growls. “Not you. Just this asshole.” But Monty looks so worried, and Miller’s frown falters. “I, uh—you just don’t want to see this,” he tries. “I’ll find you later, yeah?”

Monty swallows, lowering himself back into his seat. “Okay. Just as long as you don’t kill him?”

“No promises,” says Miller, before tugging Jasper away. Clarke waits until they pass her, then follows them down the line of tables. Before she makes it out of the hall, an arm reaches out and snags her wrist. She turns to find Bellamy looking up at her, frowning.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

Clarke wrenches her wrist free, takes a hurried step back. By some miracle, Bellamy hasn’t succumbed to whatever bizarre potion Jasper subjected her to. She’s not going to risk him getting contaminated with this. She wouldn’t be able to handle it.

“Yeah,” she says, fast. “Fine. Don’t worry about it.”

Bellamy’s face falls. “Oh. Okay.”

She forces herself to turn away. One problem a time.

“Later, Bellamy!” she calls, before running after Miller and Jasper.

 

* * *

 

Miller leads them to a storage closet on the second floor. As soon as the door closes behind them, he lets go of Jasper’s collar, snarling.

“The hell did you do?”

Jasper blinks. “What’s your problem, man?”

“The potion,” says Clarke, leaning back against the door. “The one you gave me yesterday. You said it was for focus.”

“It was!” says Jasper.

“Is there any chance you got it wrong? Are you maybe working on a love potion or something?”

“A love potion,” Jasper repeats. There’s a long pause. Then: "Oh shit.”

“There we go,” says Miller.

Jasper groans. “Shit, shit! I’m so sorry. I don’t put labels on them in case one of the professors finds them, so I may have mixed the two up. Oh, shit, that explains some stuff.”

Clarke’s tempted to yell at him, to launch into what Raven likes to refer to as one of her “dad lectures.” But she doesn’t really have the time.

“Tell me about the love potion,” she says. “What are the effects? How long does it last?”

“Err,” says Jasper, glancing between her and Miller. “I’m not sure.”

They both stare at him.

“I hadn’t tested it yet!” Jasper explains. “I know what it’s _supposed_ to do, but I can’t say for sure whether it’s working the way it’s supposed to.”

“How is it supposed to work?” Miller asks, through clenched teeth.

“It’s supposed to be that the first person you touch after drinking it develops a short-term crush on you,” says Jasper.

“First person?” Miller asks, swiveling his neck to look at Clarke. “I can’t be the first person you’ve touched today.”

“You?” Jasper asks, with a laugh. His grin disappears when Miller whirls back to glare at him. “Sorry, sorry.”

“You weren’t,” says Clarke. “It—it must not be confined to one person. It happened to you too, right Jasper?”

Jasper nods, looking guilty.

“Oh god,” says Clarke. “I think it’s happening to _everyone_ I touch.”

“Oh,” says Jasper, unhelpfully. “Oops.”

“How long is this going to last, man?” Miller asks. “This is ridiculous.”

“Not long!” Jasper insists. “It’s not a strong potion. I’m good but not _that_ good. Twenty-four hours, max.”

“From the time they touched me, or from the time I drank the potion?” Clarke asks.

“From the time you drank the potion.”

“So, only a few more hours,” Clarke says, slumping against the door. “Thank god.”

“Agreed,” says Miller. He points at Clarke. “I vote you go back to the dorm and keep your hands to your damn self. And also, we don’t mention this to _anyone_.”

“Yeah,” says Clarke, absently. “Uh, I was supposed to meet with Monty to work on—”

Miller glares at her.

“Right,” Clarke backtracks. “Right. No Monty. Sorry.”

Miller sighs. “I’ll bring you some food later. Can you, err—move?”

Clarke steps out of the way, giving Miller a wide berth to walk out the door to the closet.

“I’m sorry, Clarke,” says Jasper, moving to follow him. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“It’s fine,” she sighs. But then something occurs to her. “Hey, wait, Jasper. Does this potion only work selectively? Or does it affect everyone I touch?”

Jasper scratches his head. “I don’t know. I mean, it’s only _supposed_ to work on that first person. But it can’t be selective at all about the first person, so my guess is it can’t be selective about anyone else after that. It should work on everybody.”

“Oh,” says Clarke. What she wants to say is _: but it didn’t work on Bellamy._ Not when she laid her head on his shoulder, not when he touched her arms in the Great Hall that morning. She’d even been alone with him, like she had with Raven, and he’d been perfectly normal. He certainly hadn’t tried to kiss her, or anything.

“You’re sure?” she asks. “There’s no reason it would just...skip somebody, is there?”

Jasper shrugs. “I doubt it. Potions don’t really work like that.”

Clarke swallows.

“Okay.”

 

* * *

 

After heading down to the dungeons, Clarke barricades herself behind some end tables in the corner of the Slytherin common room and waits for Miller. (Damn this stupid castle, not letting the boys into the girls dorms.)

He arrives after a while with two rolls and an inch-thick slab of ham—typical Miller meal—and practically chucks them at her.

“Thanks,” she mutters, setting the food down. “You know, you can actually come over here, right? Now that we know what’s up, I’m pretty sure you’re not going to lose control and try to make out with me.”

Miller shivers. “Don’t even joke about it. This whole thing is so fucking weird. I just want it to be over.”

“You and me both,” says Clarke.

Miller slumps down onto the couch, a solid five feet away from Clarke, and picks up a book.

“Not running away?” Clarke asks.

“This way we’ll know when it’s done,” Miller says, shrugging. “Just...stay over there.”

“Fine,” Clarke grumbles. She takes a bite of bread, chews it thoughtfully. “Uh, Miller?”

“Yeah?”

She swallows. This is her chance. If anyone would know, it would be Miller.

“Bellamy likes me, right?”

Miller snorts.

“I’m serious,” says Clarke.

Miller looks up, eyebrows raised, then back to his book. “You’ve met Bellamy, right? What kind of stupid question is that? Of course he likes you.”

“As a friend?”

“Yes, Clarke. As a friend.”

“It’s just,” says Clarke, slow. “He’s one of the people I touched today, so he should have been affected by the potion. But he seemed normal.”

Miller freezes. The book’s almost hiding it, but Clarke can see that his eyes are comically wide.

“Miller?” she prompts.

For a good fifteen seconds, he’s completely silent. Then he sighs, mutters _fuck it_ under his breath, and lets the book drop to his chest.

“Yeah,” he says, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

Clarke’s heart is beating a little faster now, a little unsteady. Because here’s the thing: Jasper may be the potions master, but Clarke’s still on the N.E.W.T. track. She knows her stuff. She’s well aware that love potions either create new emotions or augment existing ones, not both. That if the emotion is already there to begin with, a love potion will have no effect. Which means…

_Oh. Oh my god._

“It does?” she asks.

Miller looks at her. “Yeah,” he says, pointed. “It does.”

Clarke lets that sink in. Then she’s pushing herself to her feet, heading for the door.

“Where are you going?” Miller asks.

“I need to test a theory,” says Clarke.

“Don’t abuse your power!” Miller calls.

“Don’t worry, I’ll stay away from Monty.”

Miller scowls, offers her a rather rude hand gesture. Clarke laughs, blows him a kiss, and is out the door.

 

* * *

 

Gryffindor has quidditch practice that evening, so Clarke heads down to the pitch. She’s standing by the entrance as the team walks off the field when Octavia spots her.

“Bell!” she calls, rolling her eyes and hefting her broom over her shoulder. “Someone’s here to see you!”

Bellamy emerges a few seconds later, hair a floppy mess from the helmet, dirt smudged along his cheek.

“Hey,” he says, smiling. “What’s up?”

“Can we talk?” Clarke asks, fast, all nervous energy. Bellamy’s smile slips.

“Yeah,” he says, “of course.”

He leads them off to the side, behind the supply shed. Once they’re out of sight from the rest of the team, he turns to her, shoves his hands in his pockets.

“Is everything okay?” he asks. “With Miller and Jasper? Things seemed weird at dinner.”

“Yeah,” says Clarke, biting her lip. “It’s fine. I just, um.” Oh, screw it. She steps forward and presses her palm to the center of Bellamy’s chest, fists his uniform under her fingers.

Bellamy looks down, then back up. “Uh.”

Clarke scans his face, looking for some abnormality, some indication of the potion’s effects. Nothing.

“Hi,” she tries.

“Hi,” Bellamy says, worry lines deepening. “Seriously, Clarke. You okay?”

“How do you feel right now, Bellamy?” Clarke asks, ignoring the question.

“Confused?”

“No, I mean—” Clarke huffs. “About me. How do you feel about me, right now, in this moment?” Just to be safe, she grabs Bellamy’s forearm with her free hand. His skin is warm under hers.

“Uh,” Bellamy says, swallowing. “Concerned, to be honest. You seem weird today.”

“Weird, like, I’m acting weird? Or weird like, you feel weird about me?”

“Both? Clarke, seriously. I don’t know what’s going on.”

“Okay,” says Clarke, her brain spinning, “let’s try this. Bear with me for a second, because I know this is strange. Do you think I look pretty today?”

Bellamy’s mouth drops open. He quickly shuts it again.

“Uh—”

“Just—” Clarke says, squeezing his forearm. “Be honest, okay? Please?”

Bellamy bites his lip, then sighs. “Well, yeah. I do.”

“Like especially pretty? Prettier than normal?”

“This is a really weird conversation.”

“Bellamy!”

“I don’t know, no?” Bellamy winces. “Not that you’re not pretty, but you know, it seems on par with your standard level of pretty. Did you like, change your hair or something and I didn’t notice? I mean, if it helps, your standard level of pretty is already really high, so—”

Before he can finish, Clarke launches herself to her tiptoes, tugs Bellamy down by the sweater, and kisses him. It’s nothing much at first, but then Bellamy seems to process what’s happening and his arms wrap around her waist, his mouth opens under hers, and Clarke’s smiling so wide, she has to pull away.

Bellamy’s smiling, too, that full-dimpled smile so bright that Clarke almost tugs him into another kiss immediately. She laughs instead, reaching up to cup his cheeks.

“Yeah?” he breathes, like he's making sure this is really happening. As though she hasn’t been thinking about this for months, as though she might conceivably decide to walk away when she’s already in so deep.

She pinches his left cheek.

“Yeah,” she laughs. “I like you, too.”

Bellamy leans his forehead against hers. “I don't remember actually saying I like you."

“You did,” says Clarke, grinning. “You just didn’t realize it.”

Bellamy raises an eyebrow.

“Accidentally took a love potion,” Clarke explains. “Everyone I touched was crushing on me today.”

Bellamy makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “Except for me.”

“Except for you.”

“Good sleuthing,” says Bellamy, kissing her soft and sweet and perfect. “Jeez, no wonder you’ve been off today.”

“I know, right?” Clarke laughs, running her fingers through his hair. “It’s been stressful. But it wears off in a few hours. Want to chill here with me until it does?”

“Yeah,” says Bellamy, already leaning in. “I really do.”

 

* * *

 

When the sun has almost dipped behind the treeline, the grass tinted dark pink in the dusk, Clarke thinks to herself—that should do it. Twenty-four hours.

Bellamy has her pressed up against the back of the shed, sucking gently at her throat, and as much as it pains her to do it, she wriggles away, tugs him up.

“Bellamy,” she says, a bit breathless. “How do you feel?”

Bellamy blinks at her. His eyes are warm and dilated, and it takes him a moment to process the question.

“Oh,” he says, running a thumb over her cheek. “Do you mean, have I suddenly realized I’m not actually attracted to you?”

“Yeah.”

“Funny enough,” he murmurs, pressing closer, sliding a knee between her legs. “I haven’t.”

Clarke beams, tugs him back in.

“Just checking.”

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Miller’s waiting for her in the common room, arms crossed over his chest. He walks forward when he sees her, stops, and then carefully pokes at her arm.

He waits.

“Thank god,” he sighs.

“I could have told you the potion’s stopped,” Clarke says.

“Just wanted to be sure. So—” He grins. “I take it you found Bellamy last night?”

Clarke grins back. “Maybe. How can you tell?”

“Your neck,” he says, gesturing. “Unless someone other than Bellamy gave you that hickey.”

Clarke tugs her collar up, laughing. “Yeah, well, I take it you found Monty?”

Miller bristles. “How did you know that?”

“You’re all smiley,” she says. Which is an exaggeration, because he’s not smiling at all, but she knows Miller. This is Miller’s version of smiley.

“I am not.”

“You’re less clenched,” she says, opening the common room door for him.

“Shut up,” he grumbles, walking past her. “I hate you.”

“Just yesterday, you thought I was hot.”

“Worst three hours of my life.”

They’re still bickering when they get to the dining hall.

“So, what are you going to do to Jasper?” Miller asks, as they walk in. “I’m thinking we start by hexing his shoelaces together and work from there.”

“Stop,” Clarke laughs. She spots Bellamy at the Gryffindor table, bemusedly watching as Jasper and Raven have some animated conversation while Monty laughs into his bowl of porridge.

Bellamy catches her eye. He smiles, full and bright. Clarke smiles back.

“I think we let him off the hook,” she says to Miller, tugging him towards their friends. “Just this once.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was entirely too much fun and I want to live in this universe forever.
> 
> [leralynne](http://leralynne.tumblr.com) on tumblr. come say hi! :)


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